A Day, er, Night in the Life of an Immortal CoEd
by Jeanne Marie
Summary: Looks like Mary-Lou Retton, swears like a drunken sailor (in French), Iphigenia "Iffie" Ajax is a woman unto herself. Rated PG because of the nature of the fandom.


A/N: The characters, places, and references in this story do not belong to me. I was merely inspired to play with them.  
  
A Day, er ...Night in the Life of an Immortal Co-ed   
by Jeanne Marie  
  
My suite mates were both transfixed to the t.v. screen, trapped in a state of inactive stagnation.  
"I don't understand it," Alicia said, "I just don't feel like doing anything."  
  
Annie nodded in agreement. "Maybe we all have mono," she suggested.  
  
I sniggered. Mononucleosis was this generation's excuse for everything from fatigue to falling grades. They were just being silly.  
  
"I don't know about that," Alicia confessed, "But I do know I'm not getting anything done today."  
  
"Amen to that" her companion remarked. This was a bad attitude for two college freshmen to have at any time, much less now, a scant two weeks before finals. I myself had a truckload of work to do - and the longer I stayed in that room, the more I felt like blowing it all off. So I got up off the folding chair I'd been parked in for the last five hours, surprised it hadn't molded itself into my backside, and went into my own room.  
  
My roommate Steph was in there, working rather diligently (for a change) on a paper she had mentioned was about the French Revolution. Just thinking about that time made my neck itch. I scratched absentmindedly and cleared my overly cluttered desk, preparing to accomplish something despite the vibes coming from the other room, when I suddenly heard music blasting at an unnatural level.  
  
I would not have minded if it was one of the Cranberries or Indigo Girls CDs that Annie had been playing nonstop all week, but it was not. Alicia had put in Porno for Pyros, music way too distracting to be conducive to a studious environment. Steph didn't seem to notice. I swore under my breath.  
  
"What was that," Steph asked.  
  
"Uh, n-nothing," I stammered, realizing that in my frustration I'd resorted to cursing in my native language, "I was just mumbling."  
  
"Oh." She turned back to her paper.  
  
Well *that* was real smart. Good thing the kid accepted my feeble explanation or else I'd have opened up a big-ass can of worms. How in the hell could I have explained to her why I was fluent in ancient Minoan? I switched to French, a language the girls knew I could speak, and gathered my stupid books together, roughly placing them in my backpack. "Merde. Merde, merde. Merde, merde, merde." It became a kind of chant as I left the room.   
  
I let out a soft moan as the voice of Perry Whats-his-name fully invaded my senses, and took in the sadness of the scene before me. Alicia was sitting at her laptop computer, playing a card game with a frighteningly blank expression on her face. Annie looked like she was attempting to do sit-ups or crunches on the floor, but she had given up since my entrance. Looking at the two of them, I felt the overwhelming urge to drop my odious books and rejoin their ranks. A dozen viable (and useless) alternatives to finishing my Statistics project rose unbidden to my mind. With each passing second, I became more and more likely to seriously consider one of them. *Merde, merde, merde, merde.* I had to leave.  
  
"I'll see you guys later," I squeaked, more for my benefit than theirs. I had the door locked behind me before either of them could respond.  
  
Once safely outside the building, I sighed deeply and lit a cigarette. It was silly, really. The thought of my actions being influenced by a pair of infants such as them. Maybe I was getting soft in my old age. Ferrell, that was the annoying singer dude's name, Perry Ferrell. This realization made me chuckle. Like it mattered or anything. In a few years, he would be forgotten, faded into the obscurity from whence he came.   
  
Of course, I also thought that about that nut Berlioz and here I was, almost 200 years later, learning about the guy in Music History 101. I still doubted Mr. Ferrell would have anything substantial to teach the collegians of the 22nd century, but if I was still around then I'd be sure and keep an eye out.  
  
I was hungry. Okay, so I had left with the idea that I was going to actually do something remotely resembling work, but my tummy was rumbling. I lit another cigarette and headed for Sacred Grounds, the coffeehouse. This was the only eating establishment I would frequent on campus, for their pizza was almost edible and they had pretty good milkshakes.  
  
It was now 7:30 p.m. I settled at a table for two, deftly balancing a personal pan pizza, small soda, and medium chocolate milkshake. I should've been a waitress instead of a perpetual student (Actually, I did spend part of the eighteenth century as a servingwench, but that's not exactly the same thing). I rummaged around in my backpack and came out with my book of poetry, the one thing I ever published. It took me over a decade to write and was probably thought to be extremely awful by the four people besides me who read it, but I liked it. It didn't make me a cent.  
  
I ate my pizza quietly, flipping the pages of my creation. When I reached the third poem, a haiku about parsnips of all things, I looked up and noticed the place appeared a mite empty. Add to that the stunning revelation that half the lights were now out and one could come to the conclusion that Sacred Grounds was no longer open for business. I wondered if any of the employees planned to let me in on this little secret.   
  
I stuffed my book back with the others and departed less than gracefully, knocking into several trashcans.   
  
Whatever.  
  
Upon finding myself once more in the open air, I took the opportunity to light yet another cigarette. It's not like they could kill me or anything and besides, I needed another 8 Camel dollars to get a free t-shirt. The things you find important when you land in college.   
  
It suddenly came to mind that I had left my room for a reason. What was that again? Oh yeah. I had stuff to do that required brain activity. I made a beeline for Knott Hall, the home of the campus study/computer lab. I sighed. Never before had there been invented as big of a time-suck as the all-mighty Internet. You get on with the sole intention of finding an interesting story about the guy who plays Dame Edna and before you know it, the sun's gone down, all your roommates are married with kids, and the gathering's over (okay, so that was a slight exaggeration).   
  
I passed by the computer lab fairly diligently. Then I went into the study lounge and my heart sank. There must've been at least thirty little boogers in there doing work of their own. *Merde, merde, merde, merde, merde.* I had the feeling that before the night was over I'd be cursing nonstop.  
  
The only reasonable thing to do would be to suck some time in front of the computer in the hopes that a bunch of the puny snots would soon be gone. I plopped down at a terminal and clicked on the e-mail icon, typing in my password.  
  
"You have 37 new messages," the machine informed me.  
  
Wunderbar. They were probably all forwards sent by Michelle, a silly girl in my writing class. She and her friends were fighting some e-war and I had to be a major intellect and give her my e-mail address. It had sounded diverting when I first heard of a war that consisted of sending as many chain-mails as one could, but after a week of receiving over 25 how to annoy your roomie lists, beer trivia, cyber kisses, guilt trips, love guarantees, and e-moonings a day, I was no longer amused. In fact I was feeling quite homicidal.   
  
By the time I'd scrolled through all 37, sent a lengthy message of warning to the gleeful forwarder(while fighting like hell to leave out any mention of the three foot long sword I always carried with me), and modestly surfed the net, it was almost 1 am (did I say time-suck? I meant time *warp*). Surely at least some of the little nose goblins had left the study lounge by now. I left the computer lab, carrying my cumbersome load. Why did they make books so damned heavy?  
  
Lo and behold, one of the gods must have heard my cries, for the lounge was empty. Now I could finally get some work done. But, alas, my body had other plans, for I was hungry again and I had to use the Ladies'. Funny, in all my experience, those two necessities had never coincided - until this night.   
  
I appeased the offending organ and procured a bag of crab-flavored potato chips from the vending machine. I liked to tell myself that I started buying the obscure crisps because the crabby taste reminded me off the fishing village where I grew up, but the truth was I enjoyed the looks I got when people saw what I was eating. I opened the bag and sat down in front of my books, crunching contentedly.  
  
What to do first? Hm, there was so much to choose from. I eventually closed my eyes and stuck out my right hand, resolving to work on the subject of whichever book my fingers ended up on. Aha, the Bible. History it was then. The assignment was to read the entire book of Exodus.  
  
//I want a cigarette,// a little voice informed me after less than a page.  
  
"No, I don't." This would appear to be symptomatic of a major mental malfunction of some sort to any passersby. Lucky for me there were no passersby, unlucky for me the voice got stronger.  
  
//Yes I do.//  
  
"Piss off."  
  
//Sorry, no can do. You need a cigarette.//  
  
"Na-ay."  
  
//Yay. If you don't smoke a cigarette in the next five minutes, I'll drive you insane.//  
  
Even though many have told me I passed insane centuries ago, I relented just to shut that whiner up. "Fine." A nervous episode could not possibly have come at a worse time. I hadn't talked to myself out loud since Woodstock and I knew *that* definitely didn't count.   
  
Sighing loudly, I closed the Bible and stood from my chair. The study lounge was on the second floor and I so did not feel like going all the way downstairs just to appease my inner voices. I could remember hearing some mention of a back entrance to Knott Hall months ago, during orientation week. I exited another way, through a set of doors which led to a long hallway, which led to a second set of doors, which led outside.   
  
The thought occurred to my silly self that maybe these doors were the instant-locking kind and I scanned the area for a possible doorjamb. Nuts. There were no rocks, no nothing. All I had were the ten-dollar faux leather oxfords on my feet (dontcha just love Payless), so I removed one and stuck it in the portal. It was kind of chilly outside and I had no idea if the ground was wet or frozen or whatever. The thought of getting my socked foot all squishy didn't fill me with joy, so I kept my foot up, balancing and hopping around on my left leg.  
  
I had just finished my third cigarette when I heard footsteps and felt the Buzz. Bloody marvelous. And I had to be Einstein's prize pupil by going out the back way of the building where few have gone before.   
  
There was no one out there my eyes could see, but then he came into view. He was tall, with long hair just a few shades lighter than mine and an outfit that made me feel woefully underdressed. His button-down shirt, dark blazer, and pressed slacks caused me to regret not changing before I left the dorm.   
  
As he approached, I could see he was checking me out as well. And didn't I look the height of fashion. Plaid flannel pants that had never seen the inside of a washing machine, hair that hadn't been trimmed or properly blow-dried in weeks, and a ratty sweatshirt that was older than most of the student body probably added up to give the impression that I had just rolled out of bed.   
  
What the hell did he want from me, a cat-suit? I was in college, for chrissake!   
  
I lowered my right foot, expertly avoiding a grimace as it touched down on the freezing ground, and drew my sword. He was now only a few feet away. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he announced.  
  
Whoopee for you. I'd heard of him, his reputation as a massively good fighter was widely known, but I didn't know much. I could tell from the way MacLeod carried himself that he was no kid, but he was too up-front to be an ancient. Us old fogies, we're a squirrely lot, preferring to look inept rather than skilled, and he wasn't anything like that. My best guess, he'd been around for 500 years, give or take a century. And he wasn't so bad to gawk at, either. I fought to keep an irrational smirk off my face, antagonizing the guy would be outrageously suicidal, even for me.  
  
"Iphigenia," I offered.  
  
MacLeod nodded to himself, taking in the implications of my title. "That's an unusual name."  
  
Oh yeah? Well, it wasn't when my mommy gave it to me, kiddo. I stopped fighting and let the smirk take over my face. Then I shrugged. He drew his own sword, a big-ass dragonhead katana. This was not going well.  
  
"Look dude," I said, "This isn't exactly the grooviest place in the world to be holding a duel, dig? I mean, if you don't mind, that's all well and good, but I'm not totally in the mood for a clash."  
  
He answered with a smirk of his own. Cute and a smart-ass. "Oh no?"  
  
"No." Truth be told, I hadn't even lifted my sword in months and I was not for fighting this hulking Scot of a man whose muscles had muscles. Part of living so long is in knowing when to fight and when to flee like a granny at a biker bar.  
  
His face had contorted pensively. He most likely didn't know what to make of me. I stifled a giggle. Yes, it is I, Immortal enigma, able to confuse sword-carrying adversaries with a single bizarre remark. After much contemplation, MacLeod lowered his sword. "You don't look up for it, anyway," he said, indicating my missing right shoe.  
  
I lowered my sword as well, feeling infinitely moronic. "Yeah, well. If *you* don't feel like it, I'm cool with that." Whoa there, let's see just how dumb I can be! I came off sounding like an four-year-old. Three thousand my chubby posterior.  
  
MacLeod sheathed the sword and looked at me inquiringly. "Um, where's your other shoe?"  
  
"In the door," I replied, without skipping a beat. I'd be damned to hell in a hand basket before I'd let him see how stupid I knew I was. College, for some reason, always had the opposite effect on me; rather than adding to my brains, it sucked them out my ears. I got a great idea, I'll go back to school. Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
  
MacLeod now looked as if I had confused the bejeezus out of him. Okay, so I don't fit the mold, so decapitate me! "Is that really your name," he asked.  
  
I sighed for the ten-millionth time that night. He most likely didn't want to believe that I was old, cause I was so completely lame. "Yes," I said apologetically. Poor kid, we're not all pillars of wisdom.  
  
He did look kinda bummed when he decided I wasn't lying. Jeez. "Look, you," I scolded, "Let's see how you are after hanging out with teenagers for as long as I have. I bet you didn't even go to high school, didya? What are you doing here anyway? Picking up your kid or something?"  
  
MacLeod glanced at me all sheepish, and I knew the answer even before he opened his mouth to say, "I, uh, left something in my office. I'm a professor."  
  
Isn't that special. I laughed. "Are ya now? What classes do you teach?"  
  
"I teach a few history courses for graduate students."  
  
"Well," I proclaimed with a grin, "It's too bad I'm just a freshman, skippy. I would like to have seen you in action."  
  
"Would you?" he asked incredulously.  
  
"Sure, junior," I said, venturing so far as to give the guy's arm a poke with my finger, "To check on the accuracy of your interpretation of actual events." I tried not to chuckle when my remark actually made MacLeod frown. It was too easy to get under his skin.   
  
I avoided his glare by peeking at my watch. It was nearly 2 am. Where the hell had the time gone? "Not that this isn't a blast or anything, but it's kinda late and I don't want my roomies to think I'd gone out and gotten my head cut off or something so ....I guess I'll see ya around campus, 'kay?"  
  
The kid looked a little frazzled, probably thinking that I'd up and blow away the second his back was turned. Well, I'd show him. It took more than just a weird encounter with a confused Scot to get me to abandon a life. When he hung there, staring at me blankly, I started to get royally annoyed. What the hell was he, a puppy?   
  
"Begone, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," I snapped with a dismissive wave, "I'm not goin' anywhere. You can come back to puzzle over my strangeness any time."  
  
This reassurance finally roused him and I smiled serenely as the guy turned and went back the way he came. I exhaled for a full two minutes and hopped towards the door. I still hadn't accomplished a blessed thing.  
THE END  
More author's notes: I'd like to tender my thanks to bbc, whose Angst-Free Zone housed this story back when I actually went to the school described here and whose beta skills not only made my work better, but made me a better writer. 


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